


The Package

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Murder, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: Sally gets a package from Sherlock Holmes three years, three months,  and nineteen days after the detective's retirement





	

No. 1

Dear Donovan, 

 

Do not read this if you are overly stressed or not home for the evening.

 

Yours, William Sherlock Scott Holmes

 

No.2

Dear Donovan,

 

The rest of the contents of this package can be read in any order. In envelope number three, I have placed a written account of what happened, and in number four is a paper and DVD copy, both dated, of the last two adjustments of my will, in case you choose to collect on what I have bequeathed to you. Know that none of the things I will ask for or say in this letter are something I require from you. I am done making decisions, and I leave them to you to now, as I have but one left. 

 

Yours, William Sherlock Scott Holmes

 

No.3

Dear Donovan,

 

As you know, you were in a car accident on December the 1st, 2017 which left you bedbound for the duration of the case. The morning of December 2nd, John went to visit you in the hospital to make sure you were alright (though I have never understood why he would care). During that time, Lestrade payed me a visit. With him, he brought a case that was no more than a five, and which I only took because I was bored and manic. A five, after all, is better than a four or three.

 

The case was, at the time, as follows: someone was stealing valuables from the all of the banks, and there was no sign of forced entry at any point, which means that it could have been an inside job, but no bank had ever had an employee that had been at all the other banks as well. It was an intriguing enough notion. 

 

As I was waiting for John to come home so I could rush the both of us out again, it occurred to me that all one had to do was simply collect a series of people who had, between them, been in all the banks. A relatively small, untraceable cut of the profit and the requirement of silence was all they needed to be persuaded. At this thought, I began doing research, looking at who had worked in all of the banks in the last ten years. I got through a quarter of it before John came back, and we were off to the first scene. 

 

The first bank had hosted a collection of faberge eggs that no one knew about (supposedly). I thought it odd. There were more valuable pieces contained in the vault. Given the place being broken into, it made no sense to take the eggs as some of the pieces of higher value were also easier to carry. It is at that point that I began to suspect something was not quite what I had thought. 

 

The second bank had much the same predicament, except it was a cache of rubies and diamonds and gold, though only the rubies were taken. Again, It seemed my new hypothesis was being confirmed. At the third bank was a man who seemed too rich for a bank worker, even a high level one. He, being the one who escorted us into the vault, was there the whole time. I could feel him watching me, watching Anderson, watching John and Lestrade.

 

At the fourth bank lay the reason why this case was in Lestrade’s division: a body had been discovered with a crushed windpipe, as though the thief and the man had dueled. There was no evidence for such a duel, though, beyond the body itself. Nor was there evidence of anything that remained being moved. I should also point out that less valuable pieces had been taken there as well. 

 

By that point, the hypothesis I’d been cultivating since the first scene was all but proven: the crimes had been set up as a trap for someone, most likely me. The reason why I thought this was because it had happened before; the actions with seemingly no motive, the killing with strange evidence, the combination of the two with no reason for it; it was par for the course. 

 

And this excited me. I had been hoping for something that would leave me satisfied for days, not hours, and here it was, posing as a quintuplet crime, and offering all the mystery ever needed. So I went back and forth between the crime scenes, working out the case and looking for the key to whoever was tracking me down. But I didn’t let on, and I kept an open mind. Objectively speaking, the crime could be just naturally this stimulating, and I couldn’t forget that. To assume had almost cost me my life on more than one occasion. 

 

On the 4th, I struck gold- literally. I realized that the key was in the gold bars that had been stacked underneath the victim’s body. For half an hour, I researched the owners of the gold and came across an interesting fact: one of the piles belong to Michael Cunningham; a man notorious for three different murder cases in which he was found Not Guilty. At the same time, his finances mysteriously increased. It was blood money the corpse was lying on.

 

At that point, I had to consider the implications. This might be indicative of a revenge plot against Cunningham or anyone connected to any of the owners of the items, the banks, etc. It might not be for me, but I still thought so. 

 

As you know, if anyone had found out that people sometimes committed crimes just to see if I could catch them, I never would have been allowed near a case again. So I went with the acceptable route of detecting- that this was some sort of revenge plot.

 

This, of course, led me to the office of Mister Isaiah Cunningham, son of Michael, and just as steeped in corruption as his father. As I was aware of what may have been happening, I played down my intelligence, sometimes asking stupid or irrelevant questions and playing the role of a more soft spoken man than I. John, of course, knew, and was in on it. He was always in on it, except when I did my best to keep him out, and sometimes not even then.

 

Isaiah Cunningham had a lot to say. He talked about the death threats he received, usually between five and ten a day, about his father’s cancer and how whatever he had done before had become unimportant in the wake of what was happening now, and about how I should be protecting Mr. Cunningham, Sr. instead of harassing his son. (And I was harassing, but no where near as much as usual). In the end, Cunningham, Jr. could give me nothing but pompous demands. So I left, and I began to research both the men.

 

It took a full day of research and reading to finish all the profiles from the banks and another hour to do Isaiah’s and Michael’s own lives. But it was worth it, because with it brought me a small correlation. At one time or another three individuals had worked at at least one bank, and they had been cheated by the Cunninghams or their posse or anyone they consorted with at any point in time. Their names and situations were as follows:

 

  1. Reinhardt Goransson had worked for Cunningham, Sr. during the seventies when he was a chauffeur. He’d had a wife- Adelheid Goransson nee Haas- and a child- Christina- at the time. At some point, Reinhardt became aware of something he shouldn’t have, and lost both his girls over it. He was, at the time of my discovery, 67 years old.
  2. Maya Lorrie was a twenty seven year old former college student stuck paying back millions in a deal gone wrong- a deal that Cunningham had played a part in. As far as I could see, the man was not helping with that. 
  3. Lastly, Vivian del Torro had lost her company when she’d had no choice but to be absorbed by Cunning, Inc, a majorly successful project of Cunningham, Sr.’s.



 

After further research, I realized that, as these people had never worked together at the same time, they had to have met somehow. This brought me to the inkling that the mastermind was unaffiliated- an idea which had been almost totally abandoned- was very much in existence. 

 

So I set out to find this mastermind, keeping open the idea that it could be one of the three, but none of them had ever been shown to have the brains for it, so I was leaning away from it. Another two days of legwork and four of research had brought me into contact with all of the people who had lost things and their long, arduous list of sins. 

 

Despite the fact that I buried my brother two years before the events of which I write, I had gone to some difficult lengths to make sure I still had government connections, which is how I got my hands on the unabridged list for each of them. As it was likely that the four who had been stolen from had probably angered a very smart man who had done his own research, it made sense to start there for the mastermind. I had, by this time, already canvassed all of those who had gotten in the way of the Cunninghams. 

 

It was in the past of Mister Alexander Williams that I happened across the black sheep of his family. Her name was Alessia, but it used to be Amond, and the black sheep part came from the fact that the family was very traditional, with no room for transgenders, gays, etc. 

 

This girl- a woman then, in her early thirties- seemed to be my most promising connection, and so I did yet more research into her and a few others, which never came into play and which I will not name here. The woman, when I finally tracked her down, was somewhat emotionless to the average eye, and it was easy to see that it was a defence thing. Overall though, she was pleasant company, and remarkably sharp. I believe she would not have been this way had she not had a gender change. 

 

Eventually, though, when our teacups were half gone, I turned the conversation sour when I mentioned the string of robberies and it’s attached death. She didn’t want to talk about it, citing that she was “somewhat squeamish as far as crime goes” and that “the idea there is someone with the brains, the means, and the will out there to do all that just gave her nightmares”. I don’t doubt that she had nightmares- frequent ones, too, given the amount of makeup underneath her eyes- but I sincerely doubt that she told the truth of their origin.

 

At this point, you understand, I hit a wall. I’d been downplaying my abilities thus far, but in doing that, she had gotten too comfortable to give me anything, but it wasn’t enough to let down her guard. So I focused on the nightmares. It was somewhat shameful, as she’d apparently been sexually  assaulted, but had not gone to the police about it. She was a proud woman, you see, and there was only so much she would speak on. Her dreams had become a source of shame long before I knocked on her door. 

 

She had not moved to touch her tea- none of us had- and she had not moved to give the rest of the details up. In fact, she was utterly frozen. So I kept going, exploring what the assault had uncovered and, based on her sudden inability to control her expressions, confirmed that she had been abused by her family because she was transgender. 

 

This had, in turn, given her a deep and abiding hatred for their success. Know now that it wasn’t because she, herself, was not successful. The place in which we were was one of the blocks of flats fully owned by her. It was because she had, for the majority of her life, tried to be “good” and do “right” by others and not be to people what her family was to her. 

 

There were things that were left unsolved by the discovery and arrest of the three involved persons and their mastermind, though. While Miss Moore- she had changed her name some time ago, although she had never been married- was indeed the brains in the beast, she was not the means, which led me on to search for who could have given her money. 

 

This led me to an old haunt of mine. Near the middle of whitechapel was a crack house in which I had spent a great deal of my twenty first year. You once arrested me from its former location. The owner, Charles Whitman, knew of everyone and everything; he had been in the game a long time, by then, and catered to richer clientele than I was at the time or had ever been before then. 

 

Charles, as it turned out, was not happy to make the acquaintance of a me that had left drugs behind once and for all, though he was not dumb enough to blatantly show it. It is important to stop here and point out that I had never once seen him while not high, so he had thought that the deductions I had made amidst euphoria were only a product of the drug. It is to his great displeasure to find that this was a false assumption.

 

At length, I talked him around to giving up information, which is to say, I read his body language and facial expressions until he wanted to shoot me. He did no such thing, however. It was mostly because John was there, I believe. Either that, or he’d heard of me. I like to think it is the former. There seemed to be something else afoot by that point, and I returned to the hypothesis that someone was out to get me. After all, Charles was occasionally glancing to a few suspiciously messy spots in the room that I guessed contained microphones or cameras.

 

At this point, I had gotten Charles to divulge all that he would, and went to leave. This is where I made my mistake. Had I been able to do it all over again, I would have put a bullet in the middle of Charles’ brain and laughed the whole way to the station. You see, I had guessed that this person pulling the strings was morbidly curious in me and in his own ability to murder and steal. I had made an assumption. As I stepped outside the crackhouse, nothing happened. As John and I got into a cab, nothing happened. As we met up with Lestrade and Anderson to go over a few things (including whether or not I’d successfully avoided a relapse, something did happen. 

 

Sitting at a table having lunch in a relatively unpopulated cafe, we all faced the center of the table, and so none of us saw the motorcycle, nor did we notice that Anderson had been shot or even recalled hearing a blast until he was bleeding all over the table. 

 

I tried to turn him over, but it was too late. Half his face had been blown off. The other thing that I failed to notice immediately was that Lestrade had also been injured in the shoulder. I could hear John in the very far background, giving orders, getting things moving, preserving what there was to preserve.

 

I was, in a moment of truth, frozen. This is because I loved Lestrade then and I still do now. He was… the older brother I wished I could have been. My own had heard of the “exploits” in my earlier years, had seen the success I had wrangled in my late twenties, and thought that, if one great mind could make it, then so could an even greater one. It was not true (I’m not talking about being greater. In my opinion, Seager Holmes was far greater than I will ever be). He died of a cocaine overdose, and it has been one of my deepest regrets for years now. 

 

In any case, Lestrade was stabilized, and I did snap back and focus on the task at hand before then. At this point, it was clear to me that I could no longer remain quiet. As the ambulances were pulling away, I did not go with it, although I dearly wanted to. The threat was out here in open, and it had just done a drive by.

 

It took some time to get our statements processed and, by the time we were freed to go where we wished, it was already past supper. It is at this point that I mentioned my theory, and that John accepted that I knew what I was talking about and prepared himself for the chase. This could end with both of us going up in flames, as Anderson had just done and Lestrade partially so.

 

That evening, we walked back to the flat with coffees in our hands. As we were passing up the stairs to the flat, I remembered, as I was wont to do in times like this when I would have been scolded, Mrs. Hudson. She had taken a lot of shit from me, but only when a heart attack had come calling had she departed. 

 

As we stepped into the flat, I realized something was wrong. John had flipped the switch, but it hadn’t worked. I ducked, pulling John down with me, and dove forwards. If I were going to lurk in the dark and wait to attack two men, I would be waiting by the window, or I would be sitting, if I were dramatic, like a king in the chair of the person who almost always took control of the flat. So it is towards the chair that I dived, and I fetched up against living, breathing legs. I reached up at the place I predicted the arm would come down, and caught a hand. A stripe of pain almost made me let go, and shot right by my ear at close distance disoriented me, but I hung on long enough to wrestle the gun from the attacker and return the favor. 

 

Shortly after that, I called out John’s name into the dead silence. There was no answer. Make no mistake about it, I loved John, too, and if I had ever worked up the innards to ask anyone to be with me, it would have been him. Alas, I was and am something of a coward, and I only ever got up the nerve once, a long time ago, before Seager's disastrous decision to follow my poisonous lead.

 

I found the kitchen light, and what I feared was true- John was dead too. He’d taken a bullet through the chin and, since he’d already dropped to the ground at the time of the shot, it had gone from there through the throat. The other thing I found was this: Moriarty had, indeed returned, and he had learned a lesson that I had known for years: never play with food you intend to eat. 

 

He had made his bet, and, while he had payed the price with a hole going from the underside of his jaw up through his head, spattering his brains on the wall behind the chair, he had won. He knew as well as I did- if not better- that I would not last without John, and I would not last without Lestrade.

 

Thus concludes the events of my final case.

 

The occasion for writing this is because I intend to kill myself. It is the final decision I wrote of earlier. Don’t stop reading on account of this. By the time you read this, my body will already have been found. Shortly, they will read my will- I have amassed some wealth, you know. Wealth in what John and Lestrade would have liked. I mentioned to the former that I would like to keep bees once, and now I have, but he is not here to watch me do it. He is gone, and Mrs. Hudson is gone and Lestrade is gone and my brother, whom I never once showed that I loved, is gone and anyone who I would have given my things to on the eve of my death is also gone. 

 

So my wish to find someone to take all of my things is no longer achievable. But I had a second wish, and that is that at least one person knows the truth in my passing. As you have a sometimes disgustingly strong sense of right and wrong, and deserve to know more than the most, it is you that I have chosen for the bulk of this. 

 

Know, Donovan, that I am deeply sorry, and if I could change it so that Anderson could live, I would have, because, of those I knew, at least one person should be alright someday, and I fear I’ve made it harder. Because of this, I have hung on for three long years, three months, and nineteen days to send you this letter (I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t hurt you more than it had to) so that, if you may draw a sense of closure, than this may help. 

 

I have also, in the same spirit as the first action, bequeathed to you the property in Sussex upon which I have raised bees. The beekeeper (I have been prone to long bouts of depression, so he was required), the overseer, the maid, and the gardener are all trusty people, and you need not pay attention to the property, as the honey is harvested every year and sold at a profit high enough to sustain those working there, the upkeep of the house, and a steady deposit into an account which has an interest rate of 5% and is compounded semiannually. This is also to be given to you. A percent amount of the account goes to a charity every year just after the harvest.

 

Finally, I bought the building in which I used to live, and the two women who live in the upstairs flat have good jobs, as well as the landlord who lives downstairs, and the third woman who comes in to run Speedy’s every morning. All of the extra rent and some of the profits from the restaurant goes into the aforementioned account. 

 

If you have any questions about any of this, or wish to sell, or to make changes, please contact Mr. Lionel Marion, as he’s been looking after all of this for me. 

  
Yours, William Sherlock Scott Holmes 

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaha did I break your brain?   
> Edit 9.25.2016: please let me know


End file.
